


All the Trees of the Field Will Clap Their Hands

by JadeCitrus



Category: Boyfriend to Death (Visual Novels)
Genre: Ableism, Animal Death, Canon-Typical Violence, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Disabled Character, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, I don't know man you know what you're signing up for, More tags to be added, Nonbinary Character, Note: the animal death isn't a result of human violence, Other, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-04
Updated: 2019-09-03
Packaged: 2020-10-06 17:56:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20511116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JadeCitrus/pseuds/JadeCitrus
Summary: "The water's warm."Their voice lilts when they speak, like they’re singing a song.He’s never seen another person here.☙Lawrence takes on a job as a live-in care taker for a young, disabled individual.They're not what he expects.(A Lawrence/Original Character (Named Reader insert) fanfiction taking place after the events of Boyfriend to Death 2. Lawrence Oleander belongs to gatobob.)





	All the Trees of the Field Will Clap Their Hands

**Author's Note:**

> So! This isn't beta'd! Because I have a grand total of One (1) friend who is into BtD, and they're not a Lawrence fan. So I apologize if I didn't catch any mistakes.  
But yeah, the reader insert is named, because I believe that ( y/n ) distracts from the narrative. Also because they're technically an OC, but I'll be avoiding specific descriptors to keep it up to reader-interpretation.  
I kind of thought of this and rolled with it on a whim. Don't @ me.

_“The water’s warm.”_

Their voice lilts when they speak, like they’re singing a song. 

He’s never seen another person here.

He wonders if maybe they’re like the other one. A reaper? An angel? If they’re something else.

Lawrence is transfixed by them, the grey currents lapping at their waist, their hands contentedly skimming the surface of the water. 

They stand at the edge of The River, and look back at him, or maybe past him. 

He can’t tell, he looks away too quickly. 

_“It’s beautiful.”_

When he looks up, they’re gone.

☙

A field mouse. 

Maybe a house mouse? 

No, it’s too big, too long, too fat. It’s a field mouse. Rare to see one so close to the house this time of year. But you suppose that your garden provided the promise of a meal just the same. 

You loved to sit out back in the garden during the small hours of the morning; the garden paid you no heed, living and moving around you as though you belonged there. 

A sentinel. 

You would ask nothing more than it would give, you love nothing more than to simply observe the fruits of your labor. 

(Though the fruit-bearing plants certainly didn’t deter you, either.) 

You suppose that you had earned your place there. Though you would never assume. 

The mouse ascends the large maple tree that shaded your backyard, occasionally stopping to groom itself, nose twitching. You watch its whiskers glint in the morning light that streams through the tree’s canopy.

You remain still, your tea going tepid. 

(You hated when your father brewed tea. He’d let it steep too long and would squeeze the tea bag. It always came out bitter. He claimed that’s how it’s supposed to taste.) 

You’re vaguely aware of the front door opening in the house behind you, the mouse stopping as well, ears swiveling at the noise. Your brow pinches in agitation, but smooths out as the rodent resumes its journey. 

That was likely the new caretaker your father had hired, due to your previous one dying of sudden heart failure. 

You didn’t miss her. You had never liked her to begin with. She was a jovial woman, much too loud for your liking, too impatient. She’d often talk too quickly for you to respond. 

She took you telling her to see a doctor for her swollen ankles as an insult. 

Her death hardly surprised you. 

_Neither did the death of the caretaker prior to her._

The mouse continues its journey, clearly having a destination in mind, now. 

You watch it crawl up along the maple tree, to the branch supporting several pitcher plants. You’d never seen one trap a mouse before, though you knew it was possible. You lean forward in your wheelchair, fixated as the field mouse wanders even closer, sniffing the rim of the plant’s mouth. 

You become aware of the conversation inside growing closer and closer, as does the garden, it seems. Birdsong grows quiet, and the mouse ceases movement as the back door swings shut behind your father, and new caretaker. 

You do your best to get their attention quietly, signing at the two men to “shut up”, both of whom are either shocked into silence, or decide not to question your request. 

Nervous that they may have scared it off, your eyes quickly return to the field mouse, elated to find it still upon the branch. 

After a moment, the creature resumes its investigation of the pitcher plant, drawn in by the sweet smell, no doubt. 

_ You know the smell. Sickeningly sweet, something that could rot your teeth. _

It hesitates, only for a moment, small, greedy hands grasping the lip of the plant, drawing it closer. 

You lean closer as well, watching the mouse poke its head into the plant, heedless of the imminent danger. 

Time ticks by slowly for a moment. 

You’re swallowed by the blood thrumming in your ears, fingers gone white, nails digging into your palms in anticipation. 

The mouse falls in, and begins its futile struggle to exit the plant. Its squeals and cries are muted by the nectar that it struggles in. 

You turn to face your father, as well as your new caretaker, both of whom seem to have grown pale at the display. 

Offering a smile as the men turn their gaze on you, you greet them both, though your eyes are fixated on your new caretaker, who refuses to make eye contact with you. 

What an unusual man. 

_ His eyes remind you of somewhere. You feel nothing when you look at them. Beautiful. _

“This is Lawrence, from what he’s told me thus far, I think the two of you are going to get along!” Your father says, clapping Lawrence on the shoulder, who looks (if possible) even more uncomfortable at the contact. 

**“I’m Fern.”** You sign, hands following the name sign you had given yourself. **“Nice to meet you.”**

Your father sighs, and you can almost feel the eye roll that he withholds. 

“Do you understand sign language? Fern doesn’t like to speak--” 

Your expression melts into a scowl, and you reach into the pouch on the side of your wheelchair, grabbing the handheld dry erase board, and tapping it; an obvious assertion that you could use it if need be. 

Your father does roll his eyes then, speaking to Lawrence in a hushed voice, a conversation that should involve you, but you decidedly have no interest in. 

You shift in your seat, allowing the sound of birdsong to draw you back in. You redirect your gaze back to the pitcher plant, just in time to see the silhouette of the mouse slowing in its movements. It no longer made a sound, the plant swaying slightly in its weak attempts to escape. And then it grows still, accepting its fate, succumbing to the acidic nectar that it was drowning in. 

Nothing would mourn the death of this field mouse. 

The garden celebrates its passing with a breeze that rustles the trees, a chorus of shifting leaves with the last cicadas of summer chirping in accompaniment, the birds singing their overture.

It was part of something bigger than itself. Its body would serve a better purpose in death than the mouse could offer in life. 

You close your eyes, allowing the sounds of the garden choir to drown out the conversation behind you. 

What a lucky and frivolous creature, this mouse. To drown, to die, to be completely enveloped. It couldn’t even appreciate the acceptance of its own death. A mouse would only know to panic. To fight. You imagine most creatures would fight for their life, in a similar situation. 

_ You, however, knew better than most. _

_No sound. No color. A single current. You felt nothing._

Your blood thrums in your ears like a drumming song. 

_ Like rushing water. _

You inhale the garden’s aroma. Earthy. Sickly sweet. 

_ Like decay. _

The porch door swings shut with a clatter, and the thrumming in your ears grows quiet. 

You open your eyes, and see Lawrence seated across from you, startled. 

Had he been staring at you?

You blink a few times, adjusting to the light once more, before offering a serene smile to your caretaker. 

“H-hi. I’m Lawrence.” 

**Author's Note:**

> A few notes to clarify that I didn't want to include at the beginning!  
Fern is selective mute/has selective mutism. They are capable of speaking, but don't in certain social situations. You are perfectly capable of googling any questions you have in regard to selective mutism.  
Fern's name sign is ASL for "plant" followed by the letter "F".  
Fern uses a wheelchair, but they are capable of walking (with a cane, usually.)  
Please give kudos, leave comments, and subscribe!! Leave constructive criticism! Let me know what you think! You can even just comment a thumbs up and I'll be thrilled!


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